West of Westeros
by Ghostwritten
Summary: After slaying the Night King, surviving the razing of King's Landing and saying goodbye to her family, Arya heads west of Westeros on her ship, Nymeria, in search of new frontiers, strange lands and unimaginable dangers. Accompanied by a crew of northerners, a pair of orphans from King's Landing, a good captain and a kindly maester, Arya sets off in the direction of the setting sun
1. The Midnight Isle

Asha Greyjoy flung open the door to her cabin with a heave and pulled the girl in with her.

"We'll wake them," said the girl, a doe-eyed innkeep's daughter with dark curls that spilled down to her shoulders and a body that Asha was already undressing in her mind.

"I'm their captain and their queen," Yara said, planting a kiss on her new lover's neck. "No one on this ship's going to complain if I wake them. Unless that would embarrass _you_?"

Asha let loose a peal of laughter as the girl's face burned visibly red, even in the dim light of the cabin.

"You're to do what your queen says," Asha breathed, "or they'll be consequences."

The girl arched an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

Asha was drunk, and when she was drunk she liked to brag.

"Right now there's a former king who's about to find that out the hard way," Asha said, grabbing a fist full of firm buttocks. "He'll learn long before he gets to the Wall what it means to disappoint a queen."

She leaned in again for another kiss, her hands finding hard nipples through the girl's summer dress.

"And which former king would that be?" the girl asked between kisses.

"The pretty one," Asha said, cupping the innkeep's daughter's breasts. "The Bastard of Winterfell is about to join the rest of his family in their crypts. But I don't want to waste my thoughts on him now. My mind is firmly on what's between your legs."

They fell onto the bed with the girl straddling Asha, her curls tumbling in front of her face.

"You'll have to forgive me," Asha whispered into her ear with a giggle, "for I've had too much drink and seem to have forgotten your name."

The girl pushed back her hair, but this time her doe-eyes were dilated black and the lines of her face had changed.

"Arya," she said, and Asha felt a shove in her gut.

Incomprehension became sinking dread as Asha Greyjoy placed the face staring back at her. She made to speak but succeeded only in coughing up blood.

"I told you," Arya Stark said matter-of-factly, "that I would cut your throat if you threatened my brother again."

Asha sputtered.

"They'll…find you," she croaked. "You can't…"

Arya was nonchalantly slipping on a pair of gloves.

"I can't? Oh, I just did," the youngest Stark girl said. "They'll look for the girl you took to bed. And she's no one."

Tugging on her gloves until she was satisfied with the fit, Arya looked her victim in the eye again.

"You should have forgotten about Jon the moment the king agreed to send him back to the Wall," she said softly over the squelch of flesh as she withdrew the dagger from Asha's stomach. "Your cutthroats are dead. Maybe you'll see them in your Drowned God's watery halls."

_It can't end like this!_ Asha Greyjoy thought as she saw the glint of the dagger in the Stark girl's hand. Arya's tone turned mocking as she brought the blade up.

"What is dead," Arya said, "may never die."

Faint candlelight caught the elaborately carved kraken inlaid in the ceiling of the cabin. That kraken and the Stark girl's mocking face were the last things Asha Greyjoy saw.

* * *

"Land ho!"

The sailor's voice snapped Arya out of her reverie, and she looked toward the foredeck, where the mates were already gathering to squint at the faint suggestion of land on the horizon.

"Quit your starin' and get on the rigging!" the deckmaster shouted, waving his men to action.

Arya stepped between a pair of shuffling deck mates as she made her way astern toward the aftercastle, where she knew she'd find the captain huddled with his officers.

Captain Quen had insisted Arya take his quarters, and he wouldn't be talked out of it.

It was all "I beg your pardon, m'lady," and "I cannot, m'lady, for the cabin is yours." He'd looked mortified when Arya said she could sleep aft in a hammock among the sailors, only becoming more resolute that she occupy his quarters.

She hadn't been able to dissuade him, nor had she broken him of his habit of calling her "m'lady." All the men addressed her that way. They were northerners, and to them she was still Eddard Stark's youngest girl.

The snarling direwolf figurehead was unmistakable from Westerosi shores or the Narrow Sea, but where they were going no one would know the name Stark.

To them, the beast baring its teeth from behind the bowsprit might as well be a manticore or a basilisk, Arya thought.

Arya slipped into the wardroom, momentarily unnoticed by the captain and the five or six men gathered round him, consulting a handful of parchments that were the only maps to chart west of the Sunset Sea. All were fragmentary, and they each differed in detail. This voyage was an opportunity to reconcile those maps and chart potential new lands, which is why the Citadel had petitioned King Bran the Broken to partake in the expedition.

The king had agreed, allowing the citadel to send one maester and one assistant in exchange for elevating Samwell Tarly to the station of grandmaester in service to the Crown – and pardoning his "theft" of several volumes about The Long Night and the White Walkers.

Maester Ocram Olop leaned over the long oaken wardroom table, his links dangling as he watched Fanta, his Pentoshi assistant, mark the landmass on a fresh parchment.

"…was just a portion of what we saw on Maester Ocram's Volantine scope," the captain was saying. "Then we'll follow the coastline and get the measure of it."

A few of the officers had noticed Arya, and Captain Quen looked up.

"M'lady," he said jubilantly. "Our persistence has paid off!"

"I never doubted you or your men, captain," Arya said.

Her eyes swept the maps laid out on the table.

"Is this the island from the Ghiscari charts?" she asked, her gaze lingering on a faded parchment marked in indecipherable Ghiscari script.

Captain Quen cleared his throat, turning the old map for her benefit.

"No, m'lady," he said, pointing a finger to a grid on the parchment. "On our heading we should have seen it by our second week at sea. We weren't entirely surprised, truth tell, because it don't show in the charts we took from that Greyjoy ship what belonged to Euron, nor does it exist on the Dornish trading maps."

Maester Ocram ran his fingers over his bald dome.

"But we do know of an island mentioned in Maester Ch'Vyalthan's 'Discoveries of Antiquity'," Ocram said, bowing his head. "Its description and apparent location seem to match an isle included in the Braavosi charts."

Quen gave the maester a sidelong glance and nodded at Arya.

"Aye," he said. "The Midnight Isle."

* * *

Arya looked back at _Nymeria_, which was anchored offshore as its crew unloaded the supplies they'd need to make camp for the night.

Captain Quen had found a natural bay after steering _Nymeria_ southeast along the island's shore. The sailors would take shifts on the ship, allowing everyone time to get to shore and stretch their legs, even if the island proved to be of little interest.

For the time being there were no signs of human habitation. Quen had dispatched a trio of hunting parties – two would follow the shoreline looking for paths or any sign of human life before turning inward toward the jungle, while the third would head straight into the thick tangle of trees and brush.

Arya spotted Alyce and Jack struggling to bring a chest ashore and moved to help them.

"A bit heavy for you lot, isn't it?" Arya asked the two King's Landing orphans, a smile flashing across her face.

"I've got it, m'lady!" Jack said, redoubling his efforts in order to impress her.

"And what a strong lad you are!" Arya said.

Jack beamed. Alyce, who was older by two years, had taken to dressing, talking and moving like Arya. The sailors called her Little Nym, cheering her on during her sword lessons with Arya on the deck of the ship.

Arya nodded at Alyce, grabbing one side of the chest and helping the orphaned siblings drag the heavy load onto shore.

"What do you think, eh?" she asked the younger girl, gesturing toward the pristine beach and the jungle beyond.

Alyce's gaze followed Arya's hand before fixating on the jungle.

"I think," she said, "I've never seen one of those before."

* * *

"It were huge!" one of the sailors was saying, standing up in front of the fire to emphasize his point to his comrades. "Biggest cat I ever seen, teeth like knives! Makes them Lannister lions look like kittens."

The other sailors chuckled.

"What you saw was a tiger, Nigo," Maester Ocram said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the lapping waves.

They'd built several large fires about halfway between the shore and the jungle line and now the men were gathered around them, eating a supper of dried meat, bread and cheese as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon.

"A tiger," Nigo repeated with reverence, as if the name had some sort of cosmic significance. "Sounds Quhori."

The maester dug at a bit of meat stuck between his teeth with a toothpick.

"The name comes from Yi Ti," he said. "These beasts don't exist in Westeros."

"Aye," one of the other sailors put in. "And lucky for us."

There was a commotion at the tree line. Arya saw the outline of men emerging from the pitch-black jungle.

"Captain Quen!" the hunting party's leader called. "You'll want to see this!"

* * *

The jungle was an unending tangle of trees, vines, leaves, strange flowers, unfamiliar smells and sounds Arya didn't have words for. Something howled in the branches above her, flinging itself to another tree. An animal in the distance answered the howl with a call of its own and the branch-dweller took off in the direction of the shriek.

Arya glanced behind her. Alyce was at her back, hand on the pommel of her sword, a replica of Needle. Her younger brother had lobbied to tag along, but Arya ruled it out.

"Maybe during the day," she told the disappointed boy.

Behind Arya and Alyce were a dozen or so northmen, while Quen, Ocram and another half-dozen men pushed through the tangle.

The hunting party had already cleared a path but the men in front hacked away at vines and tree limbs all the same, widening the narrow lane for the larger group.

The front of the column stopped.

"What do we have, captain?" Arya called.

Quen waved her forward. The captain extended a hand and one of his men passed him a lit torch. He flung it high into the air, and Arya followed the torch's arc as it tumbled.

She heard wood slapping stone and saw stray embers float off as the torch bounced and came to rest.

Some of the northmen were already moving ahead, their own flames illuminating the path ahead.

They stood not far from the base of an enormous staircase etched in what appeared to be granite. The stairs were worn in some places, broken in others, but were wide enough to accommodate a dozen men abreast.

As they approached, their torches illuminated a greater part of the grand stair, and Arya could see it was swallowed by the jungle ahead.

"Up we go," one of the men called. "Watch your steps, m'ladies."

Another sailor snorted.

"Lady Stark and Alyce are more surefooted than ye, y'dunce," he said.

The first northmen grunted.

"Wasn't talkin' about those ladies," he said. "I was talkin' about _you_ ladies!"

The others chuckled until Maester Ocram cut them off with a sharp hiss and a wave of his arms.

"Shush!" he said in a harsh whisper. "Listen."

Arya could hear it too. A rhythmic thumping. Deep, powerful, echoing off the top of the ridge where presumably the stairwell leveled off under the cover of jungle. And voices. What sounded like hundreds of voices chanting in unison.

"Drums," she whispered.

There was something else too. Something that barely registered above the din, Arya registering the sound too late to warn the others. All she could do was drop low against the stone of the great staircase as the arrows cut through the air above her, dragging Alyce down with her.

Ahead, one of the northmen howled as a sharp-tipped projectile caught him in the shoulder, sending him tumbling.

"Not today," Arya said, drawing Needle.


	2. Valar Morghulis

They came from every direction, painted head to toe in black and green so they appeared to spawn from the jungle and melt back into it again at will.

A huge warrior the size of Sandor Clegane barreled his way toward Arya and Alyce, swiping a sailor out of the way as he shouted in a tongue Arya had never heard before.

"Stay behind me!" Arya yelled over her shoulder.

Terrified, Alyce huddled on the stairs, her replica Needle forgotten in its sheath. Her scream cut the air as the imposing warrior closed the gap between them in two strides, his axe already raised.

Arya danced around the heavy weapon and slashed with her sword, cutting the exposed flesh on the giant's heavily muscled leg. If he felt it, he didn't give any indication.

His brutal backhand caught Arya full-on, knocking the wind from her as she smacked the stairs. She knew she had no time to recover and rolled to avoid the axe as it came around again. The heavy blade narrowly missed her, chipping the stone with a sharp crack.

Still reeling from the warrior's blow, Arya dropped Needle and drew her Valyrian steel dagger. This time she was ready for the giant's backhand, sidestepping it and slashing his painted abdomen.

He felt _that_, she thought as he bellowed in frustration and pain.

She barely had time to register the presence of another warrior as an axe scythed up from a stair below. She pivoted on one foot and leaned into the second man's body, letting momentum power a downward slash that tore open the neck's primary artery.

"No time," Arya yelled, shoving Alyce down the great staircase.

She watched the younger girl tumble out of the corner of her eye before the recovered giant swung at her with a vicious chop that would have felled a tree. With the warrior fully committed to the motion, Arya saw her moment. Still crouching, she used one hand to steady herself against a stair while flicking her blade behind the man's ankle, severing the tendons.

He roared in agony and lost his balance, crashing down in the direction Arya had thrown Alyce. He wouldn't be getting up.

Ahead, three northerners were surrounded by half a dozen ambushers closing in with jagged bone blades. Arya stepped around a broken stair and launched herself at one of the enemy, killing her with one quick plunge of her dagger to the back of the woman's head where her skull met her spinal column.

Before the dead woman's comrade could register what was happening Arya had already pivoted, drawing the Valyrian steel across his throat.

With the odds evened, the three northmen went on the offensive, using the superior reach of their swords to draw blood from their attackers.

There was a shout from further up the staircase and Arya saw a sailor cut down by another imposing warrior. Facing the large man, Captain Quen raised his hands, dropped his sword and displayed his palms in a universal gesture of submission.

Arya turned to clear a path for the surrounded captain, but while her legs obeyed, something pulled at her right shoulder and she teetered on the edge of a step. A second arrow tore her leather jerkin at the waist, lodging against bone.

She lost her balance, hitting the stone stair hard as she tumbled. The arrow lodged in her hip snapped against another stair. A new blossom of pain registered just as the ground rushed up to meet her.

_Where's Alyce?_ Arya thought a moment before everything turned black.

* * *

The first thing that registered in her consciousness was a spike of pain in her shoulder, followed by voices, the hushed whispers of men. They were speaking the common tongue

Arya sat up, triggering a new burst of pain in her side and reminding her there had been two arrows, not one. There was a headache too, a deep throbbing in her forehead where she'd collided with a stair during her tumble.

"Easy, easy…"

The voice belonged to Maester Ocram, who reached out a hand to help steady her as she blinked away the grogginess.

"How long have I been out?" Arya asked.

Worry lined the maester's face, creasing the folds above his eyes.

"A few hours, mind," Ocram whispered. "Drink this."

She took the flask gratefully, gulping down bitter wine as if it were water. When she handed the flask back to Maester Ocram he pressed another into her hand.

"Milk of the poppy," Ocram said, reading her expression.

Arya shook her head.

"No," she said. "I need a clear head. I won't…"

"You will if you want that arrow out of you," he said, nodding toward the dark stain near her hip.

Arya sighed, nodded and gulped down the sour liquid.

"Thank you," she told Ocram's assistant, Fanta, as she handed the poppy flask to him.

They were in a small clearing with a dozen other northerners, illuminated only by faint starlight twinkling through the leaf canopy above.

"Lay back," Ocram said softly.

Arya did as she was told.

Fanta selected large scissor from a kit and cut Arya's jerkin along her side, exposing the wound.

"Not so bad," the young assistant smiled. "We'll have you patched up proper."

Arya winced at what she could see of her wound and the developing bruises on her side.

"They teach you bedside manner now at the Citadel?"

The milk of the poppy was beginning to take its hold. She felt her muscles relaxing. The pain was still present, but duller.

An image of the grand stair flashed through Arya's mind.

"Alyce?" she asked.

Ocram shook his head. "They have her."

"Quen?"

"The same, but alive too, we believe. Bite down."

The maester placed a leather cord between her lips. Arya tried not to think of what would come next.

Fanta handed Ocram a device that looked like a scissor, but instead of blades each arm ended in a polished, curve piece of metal.

She bit down hard as she felt the instrument probe her wound.

"Hold this," Ocram whispered to Fanta, turning back to his kit.

This time he picked up a small clamp and a pair of tweezers. Arya yelped as a stab of pain blossomed from her side. She thought of her father at the Sept of Baelor. Syrio in the Tower of the Hand where they practiced. Yoren at the abandoned castle. Sandor Clegane in the ruins of the Red Keep.

All offerings to the God of Death.

"Not today," she breathed, then clenched her teeth until her face was white as Ocram yanked the broken arrow out of her flesh.

* * *

When Arya regained consciousness for the second time, a moon gray kitten was laying on her chest, tongue gently lapping the cuts and bruises on her face.

"Hey you," she said, slowly extending a hand.

The kitten sniffed at her fingers, then rubbed its forehead against the back of her hand.

She groaned as she tried to force herself up.

"Easy now, m'lady," Fanta said, rushing to her side and helping her sit up slowly with her back to the thick trunk of a nearby tree.

"There could be hundreds of 'em," one of the sailors was saying. "Old Quen knew when to cut his losses. We should too."

A few other men nodded in agreement, looking nervously into the jungle around the clearing.

"We are not abandoning Captain Quen," Ocram said matter-of-factly, with the authority that came easy to the highborn. "We will wait for our scouts, learn how many of the enemy there really are, and formulate a plan for the captain's rescue, as well as the rescue of every one of our people taken by these brutes."

Arya's voice was hoarse, but each of the men in the clearing turned when she spoke.

"The maester is right," she said. "We don't leave anyone behind."

Ocram bowed his head slightly, then addressed her.

"There's something I have to show you," he said, nodding toward Fanta and Nigo, who moved to help Arya up. The kitten mewed, rubbing up against her leg as it turned to follow her.

With her weight distributed between the two men, Arya hobbled forward, following the maester just past the clearing where two of the enemy sat, hands tied behind their backs, looking up at their captors.

Arya considered the captives for a long moment.

"What better spy can we have," she asked, "than one of their own?'

Letting go of Nigo, she unsheathed her dagger and hobbled her way toward one of the captives, whose eyes grew wide.

Fanta helped Arya down until she was crouched at eye level with the man.

"Valar morghulis," she said, blade glinting in the starlight.


	3. A Game of Cat and Dragon

Arya did not need to exaggerate her wounds as she approached the camp. Wearing the face and clothes of the enemy, she followed the tracks inland for more than two miles until she heard indistinct voices in a language she didn't recognize.

"Uzunoke!"

A scout high up in a tree had spotted her. Two burly, painted men appeared from the trees with spears lowered, then relaxed their postures when they saw it was one of their own.

"Yensta artip no gase?" one of the men asked.

Arya took another limping step, opened her mouth as if to answer the man's query and collapsed, feigning unconsciousness.

There was another shout, the sound of footsteps in the brush followed by strong hands hoisting her up by her arms and legs.

Arya relaxed her eyelids and risked a peek at her surroundings as they carried her. The enemy's camp was situated among the ruins of some grand structure, with toppled columns and decaying relief carvings only hinting at its former glory.

Men and women of some apparent warrior cast sat huddled around low fires, sharpening blades and roasting boar on spits. Others were gathered in the husk of a weathered amphitheater, playing a game that involved the tossing of small bones.

The men carrying Arya ducked into a candle-lit tent, laying her carefully on a cot tucked into the back corner. Arya peeked through slit eyes as the flap closed and she adjusted to the dark. The interior was surprisingly well-appointed: layers of carpets lined the floor, intricately carved idols lined a low bench, and rows of flasks, poultices and serums were neatly arranged on a stained oak table that dominated the tent's inside.

A man hunched over the table, his back toward her. A vicious scar ran like a fault line along the back of his smooth skull and part of his left ear was missing. His hands worked a pestle in an earthenware bowl as he hummed an indistinct tune.

Arya watched him silently as the tent's flap rustled. It was the moon gray kitten, tail raised to a curious curve at the tip as it padded quietly across the carpet.

The kitten spotted Arya and hopped onto the cot.

"He seems quite taken with you."

Arya froze. The man had spoken the common tongue.

"A face behind a face," the man continued, still facing away from Arya as he worked the pestle. "It has been a long time since I have seen the Faceless."

Seeing no reason to continue the façade, Arya sat up.

"Who are you?"

For the first time the man looked over his shoulder, flashing a grin toward her.

"Your friends will be dead by dawn," he said, ignoring her question. "You're going to need the cat."

"You know where they are." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

The man turned back to his work, shrugging.

"They are the feast," he said, "and they're marinating nicely."

Arya was losing her patience.

"Feast for who? Where are they?"

The bald man laughed.

"Mustn't upset the assassin," he said, "or she'll make her own sacrifice of me next."

He placed the pestle down and turned toward her. For the first time she noticed he wore a heavy chain of irregular links cast in different metals and shapes.

A maester.

"A feast for what, not a feast for who," he said softly, meeting her gaze. "It's how the tribe keeps the beast pacified."

He let loose a cackle as he leaned back against the oaken table.

"Even a beast must tire of goat and pig!"

Arya rested her hand on her leg, feeling the Valyrian steel dagger strapped to her thigh underneath the tribal clothes she wore.

"Tell me where they're keeping my friends," she said.

The maester's chains clinked.

"You'll take me with you on your ship," he insisted. "The cat too."

The kitten nuzzled its head against Arya's palm.

"If you tell me where they are, when all this is over, we will talk about who you are and how we might help you," Arya said. "But if you lie, I'll know about it and cut your throat. If you raise the alarm, I'll find you and cut your throat. If you do anything to put the lives of my crew in danger, yours will be the next face in my collection."

An enthusiastic cheer and laughter came from the direction of the amphitheater, muffled by the tent's flaps. The maester nodded.

"We'd expect no less," he said, "from a servant of the Many-Faced God."

* * *

Arya followed the crazed maester's instructions, moving between tents and ducking into the shadows of crumbling columns as she made her way north.

The camp's noises were muted now. Warriors snored by the dying embers of their campfires. Sheep bleated from a makeshift pen between a quintet of lopsided tents. Ahead, a stream cut through the ruins, running along an artificial waterway that must have been carved from limestone centuries ago.

Arya moved deeper into the ruins, per the maester's instructions. The tribespeople would not camp within the ruins, he had said: They feared what they did not understand and believed the vengeful spirits of its former inhabitants prowled the decaying streets by moonlight.

It had once been a bustling city, that much was clear. The husks of shops lined cobbled streets. One wide boulevard shaded by ancient trees opened into a grand plaza dominated by a cracked fountain. In its center stood four regal stone tigers, each frozen mid-roar with spouts tucked between their teeth.

Stagnant rainwater had collected in the fountain itself. Mosquitoes buzzed along the surface, landing on vines and weeds that had split the marble rim in places.

Arya moved silently up the street's gentle slope, crossing to the shell of a once-mighty palace half-swallowed by ivy. Any doors that once existed in the structure's entrance had long rotted away, but Arya stuck to the shadows and slipped in through a window.

She paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to darkness. Alcoves shaped for long-ago plundered statues ringed the walls, and the perfect geometry of black-and-white tiled marble was spoiled by cracks. A grand stairway ascended from the middle of the hall, its wrought iron railings and black marble surfaces still intact.

Arya's heart skipped a beat as a shadow moved. Moonlight caught the kitten's eyes as it turned to regard her before moving toward the stairs, its tail waving as if beckoning her to follow.

She trailed the kitten to the first landing, then another. At the third the moon-grey cat stopped, rolled onto its side and began licking its little paws in front of a gaping window. Keeping low, Arya edged over and rested her hands on the sill, looking north.

There!

In a clearing not half a mile away burned a small circle of fires. Arya could see huddled forms in the center, guarded by men who walked the perimeter. The kitten brushed her leg.

"Thank you," she whispered, running a gloved finger under the little cat's chin.

The kitten purred, then leaped onto the windowsill. It sat there for a long moment, looking in the direction of the campfires, when its ears and whiskers flattened against its face and it let out a sharp hiss.

Arya followed the kitten's gaze. Above the clearing, perched on the rubble of an old temple was a massive figure, indistinct in the starlight. With a blood-curdling shriek it spread its wings and took flight.


	4. The Beast Beyond the Firelight

_I am the beast beyond the firelight_, Arya thought as she crouched amid the rubble of a toppled palace, watching the scene before her.

Alyce, Quen and a half dozen sailors from the Nymeria were bound to stakes in the center of a circle, its perimeter delineated by cast-iron braziers tended by the tribesmen.

Quen's head was down, as if the old captain had accepted his fate. Alyce was terrified. Even from where she huddled Arya could see the girl was weeping quietly, tears glinting in the firelight as they rolled down her cheeks.

A blood-curdling shriek filled the air, and Arya followed Alyce's tormented gaze upward to the roof of an ancient temple that dominated the area adjoining the small clearing.

The creature had the armored scales of a dragon, taloned feet and massive wings that flapped in agitation, or perhaps anticipation, kicking up dust and sending tiny fragments of roof clinking down from its perch.

But its head was unmistakably avian, ending in a lethal beak and a ridge of feathers crested atop its head, then tracing down its spine to its tail.

A basilisk.

Arya knew of the beasts from children's storybooks and Old Nan's fireside tales, but she never dreamed they really existed. Maester Luwin would have chided her for believing in fairytales, but then again, Maester Luwin said there were no dragons or White Walkers either.

The great beast was restrained by heavy irons on its feet, anchoring it to the temple.

Creeping closer to one of the stone columns just beyond the edge of the firelight, Arya placed one hand on the reassuring hilt of her Valyrian steel dagger. She counted six tribesmen inside the circle and a handful of others across the clearing.

She was beginning to regret telling Ocram, Fanta and the others to stay back when three of the tribesmen split off from the others, disappearing into the gloom on the far side of the circle. Arya crept forward quietly, circumnavigating the clearing but staying far enough behind to remain hidden.

The tribesmen turned down a path leading back to their camp where a procession was beginning. A morbidly obese man in ceremonial robes was seated atop a palanquin as half a dozen men labored beneath it, carrying him forward. They were led by a pair of torch-bearers flanked by women carrying banners embroidered with a stylized basilisk on a field of yellow.

Every few steps the procession stopped, with the obese man rising from his seat on the palanquin to deliver a booming incantation echoed by the others.

It would take them at least five minutes to reach the stone circle where Alyce, Quen and the sailors were held, Arya calculated. Three tribesmen still stood watch over the bound hostages.

Arya knew she had to act now, and she had to be quick: She couldn't afford one of the men raising the alarm and drawing the others.

Huddled on the edge of the circle, she drew a throwing blade and released it in one smooth motion. The blade found its target, lodging into one man's throat while Arya charged the second tribesman, plunging her Valyrian steel dagger into the back of his skull before he could register what was happening.

That left one other, who wheeled to face Arya just as she pushed off the body of the second tribesman and rose to her feet. Wide-eyed with rage, the man slashed wildly at her with his bone blade. Arya dodged the arcing weapon and pivoted to counterattack as the man slashed again, inertia carrying his body forward.

She was in prime position to end the encounter with a flick of her blade but saw the flash of a projectile just in time to pull back. The arrow, fired by someone beyond the firelight, merely grazed her forearm, but now a second and a third had been loosed, screaming through the air toward her.

_Fuck_, Arya thought, realizing she'd miscalculated. She sidestepped to avoid the incoming projectiles, but the man with the bone blade saw his opportunity and lunged toward her, his blade slicing through her tunic and the soft flesh of her stomach underneath.

Ignoring the pain, Arya used the man's body weight against him and booted his knee with an audible crack. He howled and staggered back, raising a hand in defense as she closed the distance and plunged her dagger into his heart.

They both collapsed. The earlier wounds, the bruises and the exhaustion had taken their toll, amplified by the new laceration slowly staining her tunic a deep crimson.

She paused to catch her breath, then pushed herself up by sheer force of will and limped to the center of the circle. Steadying herself against one of the stakes, she worked her blade to free the first captive sailor, a Braavosi man named Lambert.

"Help me get them out," she spoke in little more than a whisper, handing the sailor a smaller knife she produced from a fold in her tunic.

"My Lady," Lambert said, taking the knife from her. For once, she didn't object to the honorific.

Lambert turned to his fellow sailors as Arya moved to cut the bonds that held Quen and Alyce.

"Seven hells!" Quen breathed, looking past her.

Six more tribesmen appeared on the edge of the firelight, calling to their brethren further down the path.

Arya worked furiously to sever Quen's bonds, but her limbs were lead and her eyes were losing focus. She felt a sharp tug on her hair and yelped as one of the newly arrived tribesmen violently yanked her back, delivering a hard fist to her midsection.

Arya crumpled as shockwaves of pain rippled through her body. She was dimly aware of the other tribesmen now, eyes glinting in the firelight, blades pointed toward her friends. _The friends I failed to free in time_. There was a sharp crack like bone breaking, and Lambert collapsed with a scream a few feet from her, his right arm cradling the left protectively.

_The God of Death has finally come to take what's his_, Arya thought as the man standing above her sneered, raising the blade in his fist. _Let it be quick_, she thought, watching the jagged edge plunge toward her through blurry vision.

There was a sound like a great machine raging to life, a deep rumble unlike anything Arya had ever heard as a massive shadow barreled into the tribesman above her in a gray blur.

The man's terrified wail ended with a sharp snap, followed by panicked cries from his fellows.

Struggling to keep her focus as her lifeblood ebbed, Arya watched as the animal landed gracefully on all fours. It was the biggest cat she'd ever seen, its stripes and rippling muscles seeming to dance in the light of the flames.

The tiger roared and the line of terrified attackers staggered back, terror piss staining their loincloths.

One man was killed instantly where he stood: One second life pumped through his veins, and in the next his corpse was sent spinning onto the crumbled stone, his torso a ruin as blood gashed from four deep rends opened by the big cat's claws.

Another man charged forward in a moment of stupid bravery, hacking at the tiger. The huge cat spun around, more annoyed than hurt by the bone blade, and leaped for his screaming attacker.

Arya heard shouts in the common tongue as sailors flooded the clearing. A familiar face appeared.

"Not to worry, Lady Stark," the maester from earlier said, leaning over her, "unless you object to scars, which I don't believe you do."

* * *

For the second time in as many days, Arya was tended, bandaged and numbed with milk of the poppy. This time she could not sit up. Even raising her arm was an effort as she probed her midsection, feeling fresh stitches and the tender edge of the closed wound.

She was back in the mysterious maester's tent, but this time he was flanked my Maester Ocram, Fanta and Alyce, who stood up as Arya stirred.

Fanta learned forward and offered Arya a bowl of hot spiced wine, which she took gratefully. He kept one hand on the bowl, helping raise it to her lips.

"They will not be back," Ocram said matter-of-factly as Arya's gaze swept to the half-closed tent flap. "We hold the camp."

Arya felt something stir and looked down, realizing the moon gray kitten from earlier was nestled between her left arm and her side, dreaming a kitten dream.

She smiled at the little cat.

"It's a good thing you had his help," the bald-headed maester said.

"My Lady," Ocram said, coughing, "I believe you've already been acquainted with, um, Maester Taro."

The bald maester bowed. "That she has."

Arya ran a finger over the kitten's forehead.

"He helped guide me through the old city ruins," she said hoarsely. "Led me to a landing…"

She paused, coughing.

"Led me to a landing where I could see our people kept captive."

Maester Taro nodded.

"And he was brave in battle."

Arya smiled.

"A fierce little one, no doubt…"

She stopped, frowning at the sleeping kitten. There was a wound, one she hadn't seen before. It was above the hindquarters…

"…just like the tiger," she said, finishing her thought aloud.

As if on cue the kitten stirred, raising his head and yawning. He saw Arya was awake and chirped happily.

"Maester Taro," Arya began. "Is this cat…"

"Yes."

She still couldn't quite believe it.

"You mean, you knew…you knew he…"

Taro chucked.

"He's the tiger, yes."

The kitten put his head down again and burrowed deeper into Arya's side.

"Seven hells," Arya croaked. "How?"

Taro looked at Ocram, who cleared his throat.

"There have been mentions of a particular race of cat," Ocram began.

"Rumored to originate from Sotheros," Taro put in.

"Right. Sotheros. But no one ever placed much stock in the stories," Ocram said. "It was like believing in, well…"

"White Walkers?" Arya asked, a knowing smile on her lips.

"Precisely," Ocram said, looking embarrassed.

The Citadel had yet to officially acknowledge its own failings in dismissing the Night King and his armies, but the Walkers were still a fresh humiliation. King Brandon had summoned the archmaesters ostensibly to lend their expertise in the rebuilding of King's Landing, but the tongue lashing he gave to the Citadel's highest-ranked maesters at court would not soon be forgotten.

There were some who felt King Bran didn't go far enough in punishing the archmaesters who stood aside, glibly dismissing the existential threat the Walkers posed to the realm. Indeed, the Queen in the North had exacted swift punishment on House Glover for abandoning the Starks twice – once in their struggle to take back Winterfell, and again on the eve of the Night King's invasion.

"Maester Taro," Arya called hoarsely. "How did you end up here on this isle?"

The strange maester's face lit up.

"That's a long tale, my lady," he said. "And you'll have more than enough time to hear it all aboard the Nymeria as we sail from this accursed place."


End file.
